*In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality.*

-William S. Burroughs-

Maybe it was the mysticism I was enticed to. Regularly it was a different topic. And quite frequently, the topics were about one's intuition, or eye openers to life. Maybe it was just Mr. Hedgehog's obvious love of the subject he taught. Maybe it was simply his laid back attitude and his youth.

The entire student body attempted to imitate him. Girls mobbed him, and the boys observed him, enchanted, as if a rockstar had descended into our midsts. He was the gossip of the school, an overnight sensation, instantly beloved because he was a novelty – and a very attractive novelty if you liked slightly messed quills and green eyes and quirky charm, which I reminded myself I did not. He was absolutely not my type.

Still, I discovered myself apprehended to my final class of the day with bothersome restlessness and was most likely more adversative than I would have otherwise been simply because I was bewildered by his charm.

Mr. Hedgehog had consumed an entire month on relaxation. We had discussed meditation, deep thinking, healing, and spirituality, but today Sonic was detailing the different chakras and what each represented. It was actually pretty fascinating, I had to admit, but incredibly irrelevant. I proffered this observation, of course.

"This isn't exactly health educational," I specified.

"The chakras might not be, but the effects of it are," Sonic responded deadpan. "You need to understand that chakras are a part of the subtle body. Chakra means 'Wheel' in Sanskrit. They allow energy to flow from one part of the body to another. As with all things in our reality, they are linked to sound, light and color. To heal, is to bring the chakras into alignment and balance then understand the nature of creation and your purpose in it. It's all in motion in the alchemy of time."

We all just stared at him. What he'd said was about as clear as a blizzard. He seemed to take note of our "huh?" expressions.

"According to Hindu and Buddhist beliefs, chakras are vast pools of energy in our bodies which govern our psychological qualities." Sonic wasn't about to be deterred, and he dug into his argument. "In other words, chakras are your body split into seven sections. Each section has a very special and important role in making you the best you can be. Crystals are even used with chakras to create balance and healing."

"I thought a crystal was just a jewel that girls wear to look pretty," a sixth year senior named Big volunteered. I was thinking the same thing but was glad someone else decided to speak up.

"That too, but crystals have a specific vibration and color that matches each chakra that provides a certain type of therapy. Hideous, nasty, bird-women. That image has persisted over time. Robert Collier described the power of mind in as empowerment." Sonic started reciting the quote, apparently from memory. "All power is from within and therefore under our control."

"You have that lovely quote memorized, I see," I said sarcastically, although I was mostly dumbfounded. Sonic burst out laughing, his serious face transformed by the action. I even cracked a smile. At least the guy could laugh at himself. Wow! Talk about a NERD. Who quoted Robert Collier at will? And with that retro style I was sure he was going to say, "Way past cool," every time I commented a remark. He was still smiling when he continued.

"To answer your question, Miss Rose, what we believe affects our world in a very real way. What we believe affects our choices, our actions, and subsequently, our lives. The Hindu and Buddhist believed there is deep wisdom within our very flesh, and this belief affected everything else. History is written according to what men believe, whether or not it's true. As the writer of your own history, what you believe influences the paths you take. Do you believe in something that may be controversy? I'm not talking about religious beliefs, per se. I'm talking about things you've told yourself, or things you've been told for so long that you just assume that they are true."

Mr. Hedgehog turned and picked up a stack of papers. He started passing them out as he talked.

"I want you to think about this. What if what you believe about yourself or about your life is simply under your control?"

Mr. Hedgehog set a wrinkled sheet of paper on my desk and moved on without comment. It was my personal history. The history I'd thrown toward the garbage can the first day of school. It had been pressed and smoothed, but it bore the signs of having been discarded. It would never be the same. No amount of pressing and smoothing would ever disguise the fact that it had been rescued from the trash.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a tiny rose, stepped on. Undesired."

I added a word. Abandoned. I read it to myself.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a tiny rose, stepped on. Undesired. Abandoned."

Just like trash. And no amount of pretending I wasn't trash would make me something else. Girls like me deserve their reputations. I cultivated mine. I suppose I could blame my upbringing, but it wasn't in me to make excuses for myself. I like boys and boys like me. Or at least they like the way I look. I guess it would be a lie to say they like me, the me I keep to myself. They don't know that girl. But that's part of the allure. I cultivated my look, too. I had sexy quills, and I always wore my skirts too tight and my shirts snug and my eye makeup thick. And when I was being held or kissed or touched, I felt powerful and I felt wanted. I knew what some people called me. I knew the whispers behind the hands. I knew what the boys said about me. They said I was a slut. Pretending I wasn't would be believing a lie. A belief, like the Hindu and Buddhist with their silly chakras.

Rob O' had called me Rosey. It was his own little nickname. But I bore no resemblance to a rose . . . sweet, bright, happy. I was more like a modern day witch. A thorn-woman. A female monster equipped with crooked, sharp talons. Mess with me, and I would carry you off to the underworld and punish and torment you for infinity. Maybe it wasn't my fault I was the way I was.

Rouge took me in when I was about twelve, and she didn't have much use for a kid. Her lifestyle wasn't conducive to motherhood. She was unaffectionate and absent most of the time, but she was all right. When I was younger she made sure I ate and that I had a bed of my own.

We lived in a two bedroom apartment in a dumpy complex on the outskirts of Emerald Hill, twenty minutes from the bright lights of Night Babylon. Rouge was a bartender at a Club in Night Babylon, and she spent her days sleeping and her nights surrounded by drunks and cigarette smoke, which suited her just fine. She usually had a boyfriend. The older she got, the more seedy her choice in men became. The older I got, the more interested they became in me. It made for a tense relationship. I knew that as soon as I graduated I would be on my own because the money for my custody stopped at eighteen, and I had turned seventeen in June. It was just a matter of time.

When class was over, I wadded up my paper and threw it back in the trash where it belonged. Mr. Hedgehog saw me do it, but I didn't care.

Both Jacques and Belle were sitting on my tailgate talking to group of Jacques's girlfriends when I reached the parking lot. I just sighed. First Jacques, now Belle. I was becoming the chauffeur. They were all laughing and chattering, and my head immediately started to hurt. One of the girls called out to a handful of guys gathered around a grey Toyota.

"Manic! Who are you taking to Homecoming? I still need a date, ya know!"

The girls around her twittered, and Manic looked over to see who was propositioning him. Manic was the younger brother of a guy I hung out with every now and then. Where Scourge was brawny and dark, Manic was lean with good humor, but both were too good-looking for modesty. Scourge had graduated three years before, and Manic was a Senior, like I was. I was older than all the guys my age, and though I could acknowledge good looks, I grew bored with them very easily and didn't make it a secret. Which is probably why I would NOT be crowned Homecoming Queen, despite Jacques's high hopes and machinations.

"Sorry, cutie. I asked Melody last week. We definitely need to hang out sometime, though." Manic smiled, and I was reminded how appealing Scourge was when he was being sweet. Maybe it was time to give Scourge a call. It had been a while.

"Zhat car iz seriously hot, Manic," Jacques called out, his voice raised above those of his friends.

"Uh, thanks, man." Manic grimaced, and his friends looked away awkwardly. I winced for Manic's sake and for Jacques's.

"Jacques, Belle, let's go." I yanked my truck door open, hoping the loafers on my tailgate would scatter when I started it up. I watched through the rearview mirror as all of Jacques's friends gave him hugs and made him promise to text. Belle seemed transfixed by Manic and his friends, and when everyone dispersed she was still sitting on the tailgate staring. Jacques tugged on her, pulling her out of her reverie, and the two of them hopped in beside me. Belle had a dazed look on her face, but Jacques was pouting.

"I von't zhink Manic likes me," he mused, looking at me for feedback.

"Manic is so hot," Belle sighted.

I cursed derisively. Wonderful. Manic was waaaay to old for Belle, and I wasn't just talking age. Belle was small and pretty, but she was immature, both physically and emotionally. And she was spacey in a very "look at all the pretty flowers" kind of way. It was a good thing she had Jacques. Otherwise she might just wander around in a pleasant fog. Both Jacques and Belle were unfazed by my language, continuing on as if they hadn't even heard me.

"In fact," Jacques huffed von't zhink any of Manic's friends like me, eitha'. And I am so nice!" Jacques seemed genuinely befuddled.

"Do you think Manic likes me, Jacques?" Belle pondered dreamily.

Jacques and I ignored her. I decided it might be time to give Jacques a little advice.

"I zhink maybe the guys are... commo ditto confused? About how to treat you, Jacques. You're a guy but you hang out exclusively vith girls, you wear fingernail polish and eyeliner, and you carry a purse . . ."

"It iz Louis Vuitton!"

"Fine! How many guys carry Louis Vuitton in rainbow colors?"

"It iz just a bag with flare!"

"Okay. Fine. Forget the backpack. You openly remark on how hot this or that guy is . . . including freaking Sonic, yet in the very next breath you are flirting with the head cheerleader. Are you gay? Are you straight? What?"

Jacques seemed stunned that I would just come out and ask, and he stared at me with his mouth agape.

"I'm Jacques!" Jacques shot back, folding his arms. "Zhat's vot I am. I am Jacques! Je ne sais pas pourquoi I can not compliment a cute guy and a cute girl! Everybody needs positive reinforcement, Poupée. It woudn't hurt you to give some every once in a while!"

I banged my head against the steering wheel, frustrated by my obvious inability to communicate, wondering if maybe he was the only one in high school who wasn't afraid to be himself. Maybe it was the rest of us who needed to figure ourselves out.

"You're right, Jacques. And believe me, I wouldn't change a hair on your head. I was just trying to explain why some people might have trouble relating."

"You mean why some people might have trouble accepting," Jacques whined, looking out his window.

"Yeah. That too," I sighed and started up my truck. Jacques forgave me in approximately five seconds into the ride and spoke the rest of the way home. Jacques couldn't stay angry unless, of course, someone collided with Belle. Then all reason left him and his mother joked that he became a raging chao. I'd only seen it happen a few times, but it was enough to make me never want a chao. Apparently, since I'd only pointed out his flaws, I was immediately forgiven and back in his good graces with barely a hiss.

When I arrived home the heat inside the apartment felt like the bowels of hell. It didn't smell very good either. Stale cigarettes and spilled beer mixed with 90 degree September heat wasn't a delightful mixture. The door to Rouge's room was shut. I pondered at her capability to sleep in the heat and sighed as I emptied the ashtrays and wiped up the beer spilled on the coffee table. Rouge obviously had a guest. A pair of men's jeans lay in a crumpled pile and Rouge's black bra and work shirt were tossed alongside them. Awesome. The faster I left this place, the better. I stripped my jeans off and pulled on a pair of cut-off sweats and a tank-top, pulling my hair up in a messy ponytail. Shoving my feet into flip-flops, I left the apartment ten minutes after I had arrived.

I rented a storage unit behind the complex for fifty bucks a month. It had lights and power, and it was my own little art studio. It had a bit of an amount of work tables with self-made materials and long sheets of paper.

Projects in different stages, from a huge pile to completed pieces of twisting, gleaming art decorated the perimeter of the space. I had laid out a blank paper, and I was tempted to see what it looked like when I created it into something more.

Most people who worked with paint admired to use common utensils because they were easy to carve and whittle, easy to shape into their own creation. Nobody painted with unconventional materials or a torch or fire. The art of that is too complex. The etches and embellishes the ensuing soot was out of the box. Burning images onto paper with a freewheeling hand is difficult, that was for sure. I had to use brushes from the hair of a Barbie doll or the end of a frayed rope to create the images. When the paper was blank, I would mostly spend a wide amount of time simply staring at it before I did anything. I had learned that from Rob O'.

Rob O' Rose had been a hushful man, hushful to to the purpose of not speaking for a period of days. It was astonishing that I had any language skills at all while I came to live with Rouge. Much obliged, PBS. At the time that I was three years old, my mother – at best we feigned it was her – relinquished me in the front seat of his truck and drove away. I didn't elicit my mother at all, beyond a hazy memory of red quills and a blue blanket. Rob O' was a traveller and had very little that he called his own. He had an old pickup truck and a camp trailer that he pulled along behind it, and that's where we lived. We never stayed in one place for very long, and we never had company, except for each other. He said he had family inhabiting in Station Square, but I never came across any of them. He teached me how to draw, and the skill had saved me, both financially, and emotionally, many times. I lost myself in it now, working until the early hours of morning when I was acknowledged of Rouge attending work, along with her unknown man, and the apartment would be empty.

This chapter is actually leading on to the the main course, but first need to inform you a bit since you're all getting an insight of Amy's life. These moments are actually very important points that will come up as we go. Though the next chapter will reveal a few juicy details of Sonic so wait and see!